Ghost Buster
by Oklina
Summary: It was supposed to be a regular salt-and-burn. But Cordelia Chase, as the Winchester brothers quickly find out, is anything but regular.


Drabble fic. One-shot. Takes place in Supernatural sometime during Seasons 1 and 2; and in Angel sometime during Season 2. I'm not particularly picky on when. But suffice to say that the brothers are hunting ghosts, not demons yet, and Cordelia's got her awesome apartment.

Rated T for language. But come on, neither show is exactly squeaky clean. So if you're a fan, it's nothing you wouldn't hear on the shows.

Disclaimer: I don't own either Angel or Supernatural.

 **Ghost Buster**

 _Damn, is she hot_. Dean's patent conman smile deepened into something far more appreciative and roguish. Even Sammy had to pause a moment, prompting the gorgeously tanned and brunette California goddess to raise an inquiring, but entirely knowing and self-satisfied, eyebrow.

"Hello, Miss. I'm Landis, this is Dante. We just moved in down the hall and we're hoping to meet some of the neighbors."

An adorable pinch appeared between Miss California's brows, and Dean was so busy thinking that this run-of-the-mill salt-and-burn just got a whole lot more fun that he almost missed her response.

Though . . . it was hard to miss a door slamming shut in his face.

Sam blinked blankly for a moment. Then he asked, "You don't suppose she actually _recognized_ Landis and Dante?"

"The monster movie directors? I would've said not a chance in hell, but . . . ." Dean considered the closed door.

"Plan B?"

"Yeah, Plan B."

* * *

Plan B was a lot less fun than Plan A. It involved a black Impala baking under the California sun, greasy burgers and fries, and a pair of binoculars that were really there more for show than necessity. But they were ready when Miss California – or Cordelia Chase, as Sam insisted she be called ("She's not a beauty pageant, Dean!") – strolled down to the curb just in time to catch the city bus.

Breaking into the apartment wasn't difficult. Though the clean, cream walls and eclectic furniture gave them pause. Hauntings tended to correlate strongly with cobwebs and grime after all. Still, Dean found it hard to imagine Chase living anywhere less classy.

"Okay, of the five women found dead in this apartment, the first Maude Pearson was found in the living room, presumably having suffered a heart attack, and the most recent Natalie Davis was found in the kitchen. I couldn't find anything more specific on the others."

Dean nodded, swiveling his loaded shotgun in one direction. "You take the kitchen, I take the living room?"

It was about this point that Plan B dissolved in much the same way Plan A had. With the front door, previously nudged closed by Dean, swinging open and catching both brothers unawares. Sam lost his footing. Dean lost his gun. Out of the two of them, Dean had the highest odds of protecting himself from the levitating knickknacks and . . . was that a lamp?

 _Well shit_.

* * *

"Miss, I know this looks bad –"

"Damn right it looks bad! You broke into my apartment! You _broke_ my apartment!"

Dean gritted his teeth as the shrill shriek only those of the feminine persuasion could attain jarred his throbbing head. Ugh. Concussion. Dammit.

"That bit wasn't us!"

"But the other bit was, is that what you're saying?"

"Wha – _no_!"

Dean squinted his eyes open, blinked, and blinked again. Towering over his brother, who seemed to be bound by . . . curtains (Really? _Curtains_?) was Chase in all of her stiletto heels and designer clothes glory. Sam looked remarkably guilty, all things considered. Though, that could be the utter mess that surrounded them. Rather what Dean thought an indoor tornado might leave behind.

A quick glance down showed his hands and feet tied by an electrical cord. A glance up showed a menacingly levitating butcher knife floating in from the kitchen. Because it was _always_ a butcher knife.

"You ruined my curtains! Do you have any idea how _perfect_ they were for ambiance?"

"Ambi - what?"

" _Dammit woman_!" Dean hollered, the spike of adrenaline gathering up his wits. "Your apartment is haunted!"

She spun and yelled right back, "It's _rent controlled_!"

A moment of stunned silence, and Dean finally wrenched his eyes from the approaching knife to gape at the maddening woman. Poor Sam just repeated faintly: "What?"

Dean tried again. She obviously hadn't understood. "It's _haunted_! Ghosts! Spirits!"

Chase wagged a manicured finger at him. "Uh uh, don't change the subject."

"Knife! Coming! _You have eyes!"_

"Oh for goodness sakes. Denis, put down the knife!"

The knife almost sulkily meandered back into the kitchen.

Cordelia Chase planted her hands on her hips, took in the gobsmacked expressions, and announced, "You're paying for all of this."

Sam slowly turned towards Dean, brow knit in hesitant confusion. "She knows about the ghost?"


End file.
